Chapter 4: Anger and Grief
I am feeling somewhat better now, lighter somehow. And hungry. The smell of dinner wafts through the door so softly that it's almost like a caress. I'm not sure why I came back in through the front door but here I am so I toe off my trainers and pull off my dirty socks, stuffing them into the shoes for reasons I can't explain.
I pad into the kitchen and note that Daddy is alone at the table. Everyone else has already eaten, then. I move toward his chair and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I want to apologize and I want to explain, but the words aren't coming easily. (I have been reliably informed that this is a genetic maker in the Holmes DNA strand: the inability to apologize.)
Daddy pats my arms and pulls me into one of the empty chairs. He pulls a warm plate of roast chicken and vegetables out of the oven and sets it in front of me. He takes a half-full bottle of wine out of the refrigerator and pours himself and me a glass without asking. He has said absolutely nothing to me in the past few minutes, but I can clearly see what he is saying. Loudly.
He is not happy with me walking out after such an emotional outburst like that (again, the DNA thing) but he understands why I would feel like I needed to do that. The quirk of his eyebrow lets me know clearly that he knows I've spent the entire afternoon in the hayloft.
"Sophie, did you enjoy wading through my notebook?" I've got a mouthful of chicken, so I nod. Vigorously.
"Did it give you any ideas?" He asks me, quietly. He sips from his wine glass.
I finish my bite of chicken and have a sip from my own glass. "Yes. But I think I learned a lot more about you and Papa along the way."
He smiles proudly at me. I would give anything for him to look at me like that every single day of my life. But this secret I've been carrying around is probably going to change that look around completely.
"That is partly the reason I gave it to you, Sophie. When you were younger there were things that were very difficult for me to discuss with you. Your Papa has a huge heart. You have to understand that he never tries to change anything or anyone around him, he just accepts what's there and uses it for whatever purpose it serves."
I spear some carrots onto my fork. "That is difficult, Daddy. It is difficult to just accept things as they are. Sometimes I want to change everything that has happened in the past few weeks…" I let my sentence trail off when I feel the tears pushing against the backs of my eyes. I lay my fork down beside my plate and reach for the wineglass again.
It's sweet and goes down slowly, cooling my throat and helping to fight off that constricting feeling. In mere seconds I feel like I can breathe again.
"Baby girl, please understand that you really have nothing to blame yourself for. Michael was in pain and he released it the only way he knew how." Daddy holds my gaze with his own. He can be fierce when he wants to be.
I nod and take another bite. It gives me time to think about wording this. "Do you remember the air gun that you gave me to practice with when I was at school?"
"Yeah, I remember. But you weren't supposed to take it with you." He is searching my face now. I am glad Papa isn't around at the moment.
"I didn't." He sits back and folds his hands together on the table. He nods at me, patiently waiting.
"Daddy, I took the Browning." I can only stare down at the table now. My dinner tastes like ashes in my mouth and the wine like vinegar. I push the plate away from me.
Daddy sits still for a time, contemplating. I have never lied to either of my parents. I try to tell myself that I did not lie about this, I merely left out information. It is hard to believe that at twenty years old I feel a heck of a lot younger. Daddy's disappointment washes over me in waves. For some reason, now the tears won't even come. I am going to get what I deserve.
"I have no excuse." I say to him and look him straight in the eyes. "I don't even know why I took the thing last time I was home." I had been using it quite a bit when I was home last time, getting used to the feel of it my hand so that when I did use it I would know the weapon well. It takes a lot of concentration to aim and fire while keeping a galloping horse in check. I don't need to say all this, though, because it will only come out like a justification.
Daddy's eyes are blue steel. I can only imagine what is going through his mind. Very carefully he speaks to me, perhaps considering that I might run away again. I want to remind him that I am not Papa, that I usually face my problems head-on. But I keep my mouth shut. He is weighing me now, considering the impact of his words.
"Alright, Sophie. You are no longer a child, so there are not too many options for me here. You realized the risk when you put the thing into your suitcase. I will not berate you for that. You must consider what would have happened had it fallen into the wrong hands.
Papa and I have always tried to keep you out of the thick of things. Our lives were not always as easy as they are now—there are bad guys out there who would…."
He paused here. I waited. My fingernails became suddenly very interesting. "You know what? You are already aware of all of those things, Sophie." I open my mouth in an attempt to explain some more and he holds his hand up. I shut my trap.
"You are not a child, Sophie, so I am not going to talk to you like you are. You realize your actions were wrong, but I will say it one more time: you cannot take the blame for Michael's death. Honey, if the weapon would not have been present, he may have found another way. Pills. Jump…" he shakes his head as if to clear it. "He might have slit his wrists, anything really. This was just convenient."
I nod and bite at my bottom lip. I can no longer hold the tears back but the horrible feeling of guilt is not as heavy on my shoulders as it was a little while ago.
"What you need to consider is the entire sad situation. Your friend was hurting and he felt that this was the only option left to him."
He is right. He is always right.
I had not been in the dorm all day that day. I had been in my classes and then in the library for several hours, working on research for my dissertation. One that would probably go unfinished for all time, I thought.
Daddy reaches across the table and holds my hands in his, our palms pressed together. It grounded me, keeping me in reality. Funny, I had seen him do this with Papa so many times and I never understood. "I am so sorry, Daddy. Really."
He squeezes my hands firmly and lets go as he stands. I have to look up at him when he speaks.
"Sophie, we love you very much. You know that you can come to us with anything. When you took off this morning, I thought…."
Oh Daddy. Don't say it. It was never even in my thoughts. I stand and move around to his side of the table and hug him close. We hold onto each other the way we always have, as if we are anchoring each other. This embrace threatens to take me back in time, but I need to be here, right now.
"Daddy, no. I could never do that to you. Or Papa, but especially to you. I just needed some space to get my head right. I know we haven't talked much since I've been home, but I was afraid. I was afraid that it was all my fault and I should know better. I feel like a little kid again, Daddy, it wasn't fair. Michael was a good person and he was always there for me and now I have no one…"
I was crying again. Sobbing against my father like a toddler with scraped shins. I felt so stupid but I could no longer hold it back.
I did not cry when I found Michael lying on his bed, eyes frozen in time. I did not cry when I took the gun out of his hand and closed his eyes, my own hand becoming blood stained. I did not cry when the paramedics and the police took my statement. I admitted to removing the weapon from his hand where it was barely hanging on slack fingers, but I did not admit to responsibility for the weapon. I did not cry. I did not weep when they took the gun away in a yellow evidence folder. I knew it was unregistered and I knew it could never be traced back to my father.
I know all these things because I have paid attention to the cases that I studied and have written about. I never meant to be a criminal, but I had to protect my family. I wish I could have protected my friend. Still I did not shed a tear.
At the funeral last week, I just felt lost. Daddy and Papa stood and wrapped their arms around me. I just stared straight ahead and willed it to be over. I felt the knot of my fathers' fingers twined into each other. They were quiet, allowing me the space I needed to grieve. But I didn't grieve. I was guilty.
Mr. and Mrs. Tripp had paid me a visit as we were leaving the cemetery. Uncle Mikey had loaned us one of his cars and Papa was driving. Daddy was already in the passenger seat and I was opening the back door of the sedan. Mrs. Tripp had grabbed my arm with a clawed hand. Her face was blotchy and angry. Mr. Tripp stood behind me, blocking my way as if he thought I would escape.
Mrs. Tripp had an iron grip on my forearm. She leaned in very close to me, her eyes boring into my own.
"You filthy little whore." I stared at her, stunned. After all these years, I had no idea she felt this way about me. Her fingers dug into my skin. She was right in my face. I could feel the heat coming off of hers. "I knew that you were no good for my son. Living in a house of sin with those men…"
She was never able to finish her sentence. Papa had stepped out of the car and was grasping her shoulders with both of his hands. Daddy had Mr. Tripp's hands behind his back, holding them in a single one of his own. He was telling Mr. Tripp in no uncertain terms that if he opened his big fat mouth that he was going to find out how it felt to be taken down to the ground by an ex-soldier in the Queen's Army.
Everything had slowed down for me. I was suddenly hyper aware of what these two men were capable of, given any circumstance. Many years of people walking right up to my fathers and hugging them or shaking their hands was instantly explained to me.
When time went back to normal speed, Papa's hand was on my back and he was urging me into the car. His face was red and he was actually grinding his teeth. I had never seen him so angry. Mrs. Tripp had backed off rather quickly and had pulled Mr. Tripp away from Daddy (of course Daddy obliged) and the two of them had stormed off in a huff.
Daddy climbed into the back seat with me and I can remember feeling like I was in a dream. I was going to wake up and it would have all been a lie. I do not remember much else about that day except there were several times when I felt like I was floating, not quite myself but unsure of who I was anyway. I do recall Daddy talking to me and holding my hand. He spoke carefully to me as if I might run away. I remember the pain in his eyes and I remember wanting to make it go away.
I remember feeling like it was all my fault. Childish, yes, but this was so much to handle all at one time.
I am pulled back into the here and now when Papa makes a dramatic entrance into the kitchen. He is wearing an old, almost transparent dressing gown and grey striped pajama bottoms. He stops in the doorway and I can feel him sizing up the situation. I let go of Daddy and turn to him, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek as I pass by.
They will have much to discuss tonight and I simply cannot bear to see what I am sure will be a disappointed look in Papa's eyes.